Two Poems by Lyrae Van-Clief Stefanon

 

 

(The Coal Tar Colors): Scarlet RR

 

Take the shine off— grief’s mandate

 

Black crepe

 

No mirrors

 

The gate blows open as though

a ghost’s out there

 

Sericin

—(a veil?)

—mourning’s gum

 

Breathe                                     through it

Substance

 

—sticky in the mouth

 

A tint inclined towards red

 

An intermediate::

 

Scarlett—

 

petticoats trimmed with

do-not-dance

 

This is not         your white picket fence

your banjo lesson renaissance all claw-

hammer and Veins

 

of Coal up North

                                    your uncolored

post

 

Another science: dyeing

 

—the making of mourning clothes

 

 

 

                 

Southern Gate

 

The naked woman prays there is a god.

                                    —James Barfoot

 

1.

 

as though her body were a depth from which

music might emerge

 

as though she might be played

by the right hands

 

her fretted spine

her gourd belly to be settled

 

against the belly of another

and in this place

gut-strung

 

her dark skin a depth

dark eyes depths

 

and only visible to some—

 

where is g-d in this? half

 

the songs I know are

killing songs but I know them

 

Polly, pretty Polly, come go ‘long with me

Polly, pretty Polly, come go ‘long with me

 

say can you

 

see the banjo in (?—

 

that black girl’s belly

 

                  2.

 

the fabric climbs her

with its red and white stripe

 

the tip licks her forearm

like flame she is lanky

 

a living thing forgives

fire its sins the bottle’s

 

throat stuffed with rough cotton

a wick for gasoline for gin

 

exegesis of torch

yes bring it up      song

 

this up from gut douse white

tents sprung on the lawn

 

the blue bird         sings

 

the carpenter betrays

 

                  Willie, oh Willie, I’m afraid of your ways

 

                  3.

 

I will not remember being this dead doll.

Not even when I am          

away from these woods; not when

 

Billie Holiday tightens

the loose hairs of her voice into

a bow —

 

taut

rosined strands edging the waves

from my radio—

 

will this noose come

to mind. Memory suspends.

 

dirt caked on my thigh

rising

 

as though I too were becoming

a tree. I embark.

 

The woods are a tangle

as my hair is. I am

a little white girl.

 

What scribble or spill has made

this hanging-necklace? My name is

 

the name of a place. — How do

 

I get into a body:: into Virginia::

into another state.

 

                  4.

 

Death the nearest exit

we meander stop

for small towns stop

 

for antique shops stop

for me to covet yet

another brass bed stop

 

for music:: sit here

you say— pull up a stool and pat the seat— lay      

 

a dulcimer

 

across my lap:: become this you say

and I begin

 

                  5.

 

to resist

 

that lap-

 

prone

alter-

 

self

—

sweet

 

curved

wood-carved

 

femme

instrument

 

— I never

 

have so

loved the way a hand has

 

hovered then lighted

upon a seat, an

ache

 

—:

 

Appalachia

—

 

in the hollow at

the small of my back:

 

a sway so deep

 

my tailor swoons